


Paint the Colour of Your Eyes

by otayuriistheliteralbest



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Friendship/Love, M/M, Sibling Love, finding out you're gay, mickey is a painter, plein air painter au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 07:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otayuriistheliteralbest/pseuds/otayuriistheliteralbest
Summary: Wind rustled the pages of Michele’s sketchbook, threatening to tear away the page he was working on. He clamped down on the edge of the parchment with one rough hand and bit his tongue between his teeth, an intense look of concentration on his face. Purple eyes glanced back up to his sister, posed in the castle ruins’ window frame, her long lilac-hued skirts flowing around her in the breeze. Sara’s long hair cascaded over one shoulder, braided into intricate knots and swirls that ended at her waist.





	Paint the Colour of Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this for my Art History zine app, but since I was rejected that means I get to post it instead! Enjoy this foray into the past, and writing a couple new characters! :)

Wind rustled the pages of Michele’s sketchbook, threatening to tear away the page he was working on. He clamped down on the edge of the parchment with one rough hand and bit his tongue between his teeth, an intense look of concentration on his face. Purple eyes glanced back up to his sister, posed in the castle ruins’ window frame, her long lilac-hued skirts flowing around her in the breeze. Sara’s long hair cascaded over one shoulder, braided into intricate knots and swirls that ended at her waist. 

Michele would be the first to admit that, yes, he did in fact braid his sister’s hair. She was a work of art and deserved to be treated as such. He didn’t care if braiding her hair made people whisper about him; he  _ was _ a painter, after all.

A couple more brushes of charcoal against his sketch pad, and Michele sat back against the tree behind his back. The rough bark dug into his back, connecting him to the earth and nature around them. There was nothing more magical in the world to Michele than creating art outside in summertime, with the smell of flowers in the air and bees buzzing around them.

“Mickey, can I move now?” Sara’s voice cut through Michele’s thoughts. 

He startled, jerking upright once more. He glanced up at the sky to see just how far the sun had shifted - had they really been out here for hours? They had probably missed luncheon, then, but maybe Mrs. Pennyworth would scrounge something up for them in the kitchens. The twins’ parents had ignored them for the most part growing up, and so the old housekeeper had taken them under her wing and treated them as her own children.

Michele heaved himself off of the ground, patting his trousers to get rid of the dirt and debris that had gathered on him from his time sitting on the ground. He looked once more at his sketchbook and smiled, then shut it carefully, tying the ribbon closure tight around it to protect his drawings.

“Sorry, Sara! I was in my little fantasyland, you know how I can be,” Michele told her, grinning up at Sara bashfully. He leant the portfolio against the stone structure and reached up with both arms toward Sara. “Down you get, thank you for being so patient with me.”

Sara hopped down from the window ledge, careful not to snag her beautiful gown on the rough stones. She patted the wrinkles away as best she could and picked up Michele’s portfolio, handing it to him. She took his other arm in hers and folded their arms together, leading the way.

“That’s quite all right, dear brother. Shall we go see if Cook has anything left for a poor, hungry model and her brother?” She flashed a small, teasing smile at Michele, and he had the decency to blush and look away as they walked the short meadow path back to their home.

A whinny was the only warning the pair had before a horse and its rider came barrelling down their path. Michele pulled his sister out of the way, falling to the grassy hill to one side of the path, barely out of the way of the horse’s hooves as it galloped past. The rider’s seat was all wrong, his arms and legs jutting out awkwardly to the point that Mickey was sure that the man would fall from the horse and it would just keep running in an attempt to get away from its hapless rider.

Man and horse had blown past the twins so quickly that Michele could just barely make out the words, “I’m sorry!” being called out from the distance by the rider. He shook his head and heaved himself up from the ground and quickly offering his hand to Sara.

“Well, that was quite rude,” Sara said, brushing off her skirts. Satisfied that there was no permanent damage to the fabric, she tilted her head up with one delicately raised brow. “Now where were we, Mickey?”

“What -- oh!” Michele offered his arm to Sara, bowing far lower than necessary. She giggled, as he had suspected she would, and took his arm gladly, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.

~

The pair burst into the kitchen shortly after, Sara’s bubbling laughter echoing in the warm room.

“Oh, Mickey, you try me so!” Sara said with another burst of laughter. She glanced up at Cook, who stood at the table cutting the fish that was to be served that night.

“Cook, darling, you will not  _ believe _ what Mickey just told me!” Sara cried out, tears of laughter dotting the corners of her eyes.

“Aye, that I shant,” Cook said, staring down at the fish thoughtfully. She waved her knife in the direction of the fireplace before getting back to work. “There’s pasties with ham and cheese in the basket on the mantel. When Mrs. Pennyworth told me ye were off larkin’ about at the castle ruins, I done some up. They should still be warm from sittin’ by the fireplace this half an hour.”

Sara walked carefully over to the older woman and pressed a gentle kiss to her flour-covered temple.

“Thank you, Cook, that was very kind of you. We’ll not stay in your way, not when there are fish to fillet.”

Michele plucked the basket from the mantelpiece and saluted Cook with his sketchbook. “My thanks as well, Cook. We should but starve without you!”

Cook waved them off with a small smile on her face. “Ahh, be off wi’ ye now. You’ll flatter an old woman to death.”

Michele and Sara glanced at each other and snickered. They took the stairs up to the main floor, where Michele’s makeshift studio had been set up in the small solar that had gone unused in the years since their mother’s death.

Half-finished paintings and sketches had been pinned to every available surface; nature landscapes and the ruins of the castle featured in quite a few of the paintings, but the image that surrounded and overwhelmed a person on entering the small room was that of Sara. In one, she sat at one end of a little boat, running her hand through the lake water, her powder blue dress a splash of colour against the wood grain. In another painting, it was as if she were sleeping on a settee framed by a tall window, one arm raised over her head. Her hair was loose and flowed like water around her head and down her torso. An open book rested on her lap, one finger barely marking her place. A smile rested on Sara’s face in the painting, belying the lie of her repose.

Michele’s muse bustled into the studio, making herself at home at the very settee that made its appearance in the painting pinned to the wall. Sara set the basket of pasties on the delicate coffee table, flipping the edges of the napkin over to reveal buns still steaming slightly in warmth.

“Come, Mickey, set down your portfolio and let us eat before you faint from hunger,” Sara commanded, patting the space on the settee beside her. “An unconscious artist is no artist at all, no matter how anxious he is to capture the moment in paint. That is what all your sketches are to be used for, are they not?”

Michele rolled his eyes skyward and set his sketchbook on the table next to his easel before joining his sister for a late lunch.

~

The next day, a breeze carried the sound of clattering hooves through the open window of Michele’s studio, causing him to raise his head from the careful details he had been painting into Sara’s hair, swirling flashes of light into the braids in his latest painting. He glanced back down at the still-fresh paint and cursed his luck.

“Who on earth is coming to call?” Michele muttered under his breath, rushing to the wash basin to clean his paint-splattered hands. He knew that no matter whom it might be, his father would expect Michele and Sara to host while Filippo remained sequestered in his study.

Michele checked himself over for spots of paint and made an exasperated noise at the state of his trousers, which were flecked with various shades of brown and purple paints. He rushed out of the solar and up the stairs to his room, shoes clattering on the hard wooden surface as he dashed up to change. Michele made quick work of his clothes, took a cursory look at his reflection, and hurried back down the stairs to the sitting room, where Sara was already sitting prettily, her skirts fanned around her. She held an embroidery frame in her hands, and had an intricate pattern of roses already set into the fabric.

Sara smiled up at her brother as he made his way into the room, settling himself on the armchair with a book that had been left on the table beside him. He pretended to read while they waited for their unexpected guest to appear.

They thankfully did not have to wait long, as one of the maids stepped into the room with a curtsy to the seated twins.

“Mr. Emil Nekola to see you, Mr. and Miss Crispino,” she said quietly, peeking up at the siblings before scuttling away, leaving in her wake a man Michele could only assume was one Mr. Emil Nekola. He closed his book and set it on the table, hopping up from his arm chair to greet the other man.

Nekola had an affable smile and an easy grace as he shook Michele’s hand and bowed to Sara. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” Nekola told them. “I have been told that we are distant cousins of some sort by my father, and he requested I pay a visit for some time so that we may get acquainted.” He scratched his head; it seemed to be a nervous tic, Michele noted. His keen eyes noted the scuff marks on the other man’s boots and the neatly-pressed trousers, which were wrinkled from sitting astride...a horse? Michele glanced back up at Nekola’s coat. He recognized that deep hunter green, saw the flash of it in his mind’s eye as it flapped in the wind.

“--you were the man on the horse!” Michele exclaimed. “The one who almost ran us over in the meadow the other day.”

Nekola twitched at this pronouncement, letting out a breathy self-deprecating laugh.  “I thought I recognized Miss Crispino’s dress. I was afraid that I was going to run my poor horse right over you! I’m so sorry, she spooked at the sound of something rustling in the bushes at the edge of the forest and took off at full tilt. There was nothing I could do to stop her. I’m honestly amazed that I survived the journey, to be quite frank.”

Sara set down her embroidery. and smiled up at the man. “What is a little brush with death amongst new friends? Please, sit.” She gestured to the couch opposite her own, and Nekola happily accepted.

Michele sat back down in his armchair and they discussed Neloka’s journey - rife with danger and suspense, likely half of the tale false given the laugh that followed. He didn’t like how Sara was looking at Nekola, and folded his arms as he leaned back in his seat. In the end, they had spoken for so very long that good manners dictated that Michele offer the man a room for the night, and Sara insisted he stay for the duration of his trip since he had come so far specifically to visit them.

~

Weeks passed and the twins found themselves paired daily with their visitor, because the nearest village did not hold much interest. Nekola found himself following Michele and Sara on their rambles to the ruins, the meadow for picnics, going for boat rides on the lake, and even into Michele’s studio at times to watch him paint.

Everywhere he turned, Nekola was praising Sara. How Michele sketched her, painted her, the sweeping of her hair in the paintings, how delicately he formed her hands in paint. It upset and angered Michele, having never had to share his sister with anyone before, and there was something else burning in him, how readily a smile from the other man turned his stomach in knots that he didn’t want to understand.

Michele let out his frustration in his studio. He had carefully set aside the painting of Sara at the ruins that he had long since finished in the weeks since their outing and brought out a fresh canvas. He didn’t need any sketches for this piece, the look of Mr. Emil Nekola was a constant, always so fresh in his mind. His brush worked across the canvas, splashes of colour quickly shaping themselves into intricate detail. Michele worked late into the night, pausing only to light more candles to see by and continue the painting.

That night, he slept fitfully on the settee in his studio, waking just as dawn began to break. Michele blinked wearily in the early morning light and raised his head to look at the painting that was his night’s project.

The painting depicted the first time he had set eyes on Emil Nekola only days before, but from a different perspective than he had had himself. In it, man and horse faced the audience, a look of fright on his face as he held tight to the reins, his limbs splayed out at odd angles much like they had been that day. in the background, the viewer could see Michele and Sara, fallen to the ground to the side of the meadow path.

The floorboards creaked, and Michele turned a bleary eye to the intruder. He jumped up from the settee when he saw that it was the very subject of his late night painting and attempted to cover it up, but it was too late; he had already seen it.

“I-” he started, but he didn’t know what to say.

“The likeness is quite uncanny,” Nekola murmured, taking careful steps toward Michele and the painting to examine it. “Truly a spot-on rendition, especially given that I must have been but a blur to the pair of you.”

Nekola flashed a smile at the exhausted painter. “You are an artist of the first class, Crispino. I love the details that you managed to put into Miss Crispino’s dress, even from the perspective you set in the scene. Bravo.”

Michele gave out a frustrated groan and rubbed at his eyes. He was exhausted, and the sleep he’d managed to catch on the settee had been fleeting.

“Why must you always compliment her?  _ Always! _ It is non stop chatter in my ear about her hair, her dresses, how beautiful she is.” Michele started off quietly, pacing to let out some of his frustration, but his voice rose in volume as he spoke. Nekola attempted and failed to stop his tirade, one hand raised in protest. Michele went on, “Sara is my sister, Nekola, and there is only so much I can take of your constant  _ poetry _ .” 

Nekola scratched his chin in thought, a puzzled expression on his face. He glanced to the painting and back to Michele.

“Do you really believe that I have been complimenting Miss Crispino all this time, Michele?” Michele’s name rolled off his tongue so easily. “When I talk of your use of color, the perfection in your work when you capture a moment in time, do you  _ truly _ believe that all that praise is for your sister?”

Michele stood stock-still, unsure of what the other man was saying.

Nekola stepped closer to Michele, using his height over him to his advantage.

“Because if you really do believe that, as I feel you must, then we have had a gross misunderstanding, you and I,” Nekola said, his voice no more than a whisper. He stood but a breath away from Michele, and the painter could see the detail in his blue eyes.

“Oh,” Michele said, understanding washing over him. 

“‘Oh’ indeed,” Nekola said, a small, nervous smile on his lips. “Any thoughts beyond ‘oh’ in that head of yours?”

Michele couldn’t form the words to express himself; instead, he reached out and grasped Nekola’s hips lightly with his hands, tugging him closer. Michele rested his burning cheek against the man’s broad chest. He felt himself shaking  -  _ why was he shaking? _ \- and then he realized that Nekola was shaking as well. He lifted himself off of that warm, reassuring chest and looked into hopeful blue eyes.

“Is this alright?” Michele asked, his breath ghosting along the other man’s lips, only centimetres apart.

“It is  _ more _ than alright,” Nekola murmured, resting his arms on Michele’s shoulders.

The breath hitched in Michele’s throat, and before he could convince himself to change course, he closed the distance between them.


End file.
